


I've Seen Angels Fall

by CoffeeMinx



Series: The Courier From Vault 3 [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fiends - Freeform, Gomorrah, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Masturbation, Omertas - Freeform, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Canon, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, Ultra-Luxe, Vaginal Fingering, Vault 3, Voice Kink, probably poorly done - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8079838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMinx/pseuds/CoffeeMinx
Summary: This is another Fallout: New Vegas story I started a long, long time ago. This one is set in a different universe from my other works, with a good karma female Courier who just can't catch a break, and explores why she might side with the Legion. And Vulpes Inculta because... let's face it... I'm Vulpes Inculta trash.I should probably mention:  This series operates under observable New Vegas game canon with regard to the role of women in the Legion--no written lore, no Van Buren (i.e. no priestesses, etc).





	1. Chapter 1

Courier Six balanced the cold weight of Caesar's mark on her palm, wondering at the solid heft to it. Sunlight played on the golden metal. It looked so...new. And clean. Like something out of a Vault. 

She liked the lively image of the one-headed bull. Only the words "Pax Per Bellum" above it reminded one that this mark belonged to a madman. _Peace through war,_ indeed.

Why on this blasted Earth would Caesar announce his forgiveness and ask to meet? Was this a trap? It had to be a trap. She'd helped the NCR retake Nelson, for pity's sake. Caesar couldn't possibly forgive that. Anyone with a lick of common sense would stay far away from his Fort.

On the other hand, the bearer of this mark, Vulpes Inculta, said Benny was there, at the Fort. 

If she wanted the Platinum Chip, she would have to accept the invitation. And she wanted that chip. Somewhere along the line, it had become less Mr. House's and more _hers._ She’d paid for it with two shots to the head and a burial in a shallow grave. She’d earned that chip. 

Too much had been taken from her, all of it impossible to replace. _Screams echoed off Vault walls. Blood pooled on the floors_. Shuddering, she forced down both the memory and the instant nausea that always accompanied it. If nothing else, she could damn well get that chip back. She deserved to get that chip back.

There was no way to avoid it. She was going to have to accept the invitation.

Cass had discreetly stepped to the side when Vulpes had accosted Courier on the threshold of the Tops, not just to give them some privacy but to free her trusty whisky bottle from her pack. Now she suddenly yelped, "You're the guy!" 

Courier jumped, startled from her thoughts. 

Vulpes glanced at Cass, his cold expression only barely betraying his annoyance at being interrupted in his directions to Cottonwood Cove. "What?"

Cass nodded, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "The guy. The one she told me about, who wasted Nipton."

"Laid Nipton to waste," Vulpes corrected, dripping disdain for profligates who possessed no sense of grammar or language.

Cass snickered into her whiskey. "You laid all of Nipton? Busy fellow."

Vulpes’ eyes narrowed. The expression gave his angular face an even more sinister air. Courier had the distinct impression that Cass's name was going on a mental list at that moment. A list it would do well for them to avoid.

Drawing his attention back to her, she asked, "How'd you find me?"

He snorted, a short haughty sound. "I am the greatest of Caesar's Frumentarii, though an amateur could locate you. You hardly keep a low profile.”

That was true, though it wasn't her choice. She never wanted to be the center of attention. 

The courier job had seemed a good choice whereby a homeless girl who wanted to disappear could eke out an existence. Instead, she'd almost had that existence ripped from her as thoroughly as her previous life had been.

And in crossing the Mojave to find out why a man she'd never met had casually planted her half-dead body in the ground, she had foolishly opened herself up to hurt again, making friends, helping people. When would she learn to say no?

It wasn't going to be today, unfortunately.

"Alright. I'll meet with Caesar. _Kai-czar,_ ” she quickly amended. No sense irritating the crazy people. She wanted to survive to get that Platinum Chip back to Mr. House.


	2. Chapter 2

Courier and Cass trudged up Fortification Hill. Courier wiped nervous hands on the broad skirt of her pink dress and then adjusted her bonnet, its dangling ribbon fluttering provocatively at each movement of her head. 

"This was a good idea, right?" She indicated her outfit with a general sweep of her hand.

"Hell yeah! Gonna show these Legion boys exactly who Caesar's invited for a private audience." Cass caught several legionaries staring, shocked, in their direction and shook her head. "And _that_ reaction is from just a mere _dress_. I told you, you should have worn the sexy sleepwear! These pricks could use a tease. A thoroughly painful, unfulfilled tease."

Two young boys running the Fort's steps slowed their approach at the sight of the two women, their expressions something akin to wonder. One of the legionaries barked an order at them and they flinched, instantly scurrying along. 

"Poor kids.”

"Legionaries in the making. Don't waste your pity." Cass sighed. "They'd stab you without hesitating if ordered to."

Courier didn't argue. Cass had more experience of the Wastes. Plus, after what had happened to her caravan, Courier had to admit Cass's pessimistic world view was probably correct.

They crossed the drawbridge and entered the crowded main camp, full of tents and men. A walled arena dominated the center and, atop the highest point, a huge palace of a tent overshadowed them all.

"Guess that giant tent belongs to the big man," Cass commented. “Think he’s compensating for something?”

They headed toward it, past a group of leering men. Courier could feel herself sweating uncomfortably. Their expressions made her skin crawl, and she could have sworn they were whispering about her and Cass. Well, maybe not. They were saying something lascivious about slave girls.

Quite a few slave girls were in evidence about the camp, cooking and carrying. Courier smiled and said "hi" every time they passed, but none would return her greeting with anything more than a whispered "Excuse me." Like they had to beg forgiveness for merely existing. She could understand why Boone hadn't wanted his wife reduced to this.

From the next group of legionaries they passed, she overheard more of the same lecherous mumbles. She was just about to ask Cass's opinion of what they were muttering when yet another male voice clearly and loudly drawled, "The new slave girls are quite beautiful."

"I think that's us," murmured Cass.

"You're kidding."

"No, I think they're under the delusion we're available.” Her mouth set in a hard angry line. “Tell me again, why did we come here?"

"I said you didn't have to come."

Cass snorted. "Like you could sort this out all on your lonesome." 

She leaned sideways, bumping shoulders with Courier, and Courier nudged her in return, forgetting their location long enough to exchange a grin. 

Boone and Arcade may have condemned her decision to visit Caesar, but Cass would stand by her, regardless of the risky stupidity of her decisions. 

"Long live the caravan of two,” Courier said.

"Damn straight. I'd drink to that, but the bastards took my whisky."

"The new slave girls are quite beautiful," intoned another male voice off to the left.

Courier clenched her fists. "If they don't stop saying that I'm going to punch someone."

"A free woman!" Now that was a _female_ voice.

Courier turned toward the sound. A raggedly-dressed girl stood next to what must be the Legion canteen, as a brahmin was roasting over a bonfire nearby. Her drab clothes were marked by a large, red X, the sign of a slave.

"My apologies. It's been so long since I've seen a free woman. I didn't mean to yell." Her smile was bashful and apologetic.

"No problem. What's your name?"

"Siri. I'm the camp doctor."

"I don't suppose you have any medicinal liquor?” asked Cass. Courier elbowed her.

"No, ma'am." Siri turned and leaned toward Courier. "But I do have some free advice." Her words were quiet. "Be careful. I heard some of the Legionaries talking about ‘trying you out’."

"Oh, lovely." Courier grimaced.

"They would never dare." The cool, serpentine, almost bored, male voice came from behind her, but she knew precisely whom it was. 

No one else in the entire Wasteland spoke like that.

Siri's eyes widened as she looked over Courier's shoulder. Fear swept across her features. "Excuse me," she whispered in the same humble murmur all the slave girls used. She backed away quickly.

Courier turned around. Vulpes stood _right there_. No concept of personal space, that one. He was a good few inches taller than her, and she was forced to look up to meet his impersonal gaze.

"You wear the mark of Caesar. You are not to be harmed until he says for you to be."

“ _Until?_ Shouldn't that be _unless?_ ”

His only answer was the ghost of a condescending smile.

She snorted. "Lovely."  Even Caesar's own men didn't believe his promise of safe passage. She was such a fool. 

"Come, Caesar is waiting." He indicated for her to walk on and, with a glance at Cass, she complied. He fell into step at her side. "It's your own fault, you know."

"What is?"

"Don't act coy. I know precisely why you're wearing that bonnet and dress. You want to rub our collective noses in the fact that you are female, that Caesar has proffered this great honor to a profligate _woman._ “

"So I'm asking for it? You just wait. Next time I'm wearing my naughty nightwear."

Cass wolf-whistled behind them. “ _That's_ the Vegas spirit."

When they reached the palatial tent, the Praetorian outside stopped them, barring Cass's entrance. "Only the profligate who wears the mark of Caesar may enter."

Courier bristled. "No way. Cass goes where I go."

The guard didn't move. 

Courier crossed her arms over her chest. "Caesar's the one who wants to see me. _I_ don’t give a damn about seeing him. I can just as easily gather my goodies and go home. Have a fun crucifixion when Caesar finds out." She turned and started walking. "C'mon, Cass."

Faster than she'd have thought possible, Vulpes grabbed her arm and wrenched her around to face him. His action hurt, as did his long fingers biting into her unprotected skin. 

"Stay." His eyes drilled into her and she noticed for the first time how very blue they were. "Your companion will not be harmed."

"And do I get Caesar's word for that as well?" She hoped she sounded appropriately snide, like she was ‘in’ on the fact that Caesar's word was as bankable as counterfeit caps.

"No. You have _my_ word."

He said it so seriously, looking her directly in the eye, that for an instant she believed him. _Oooo, he was good._ No wonder he was the best of Caesar's spies. Not even Benny could make you believe a lie so completely.

She swallowed, fighting to maintain her mocking tone. "Isn't _honestas_ a virtue of _slaves?_ “

There was a long pause during which she watched a muscle twitch in Vulpes' jaw. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. He was going to hit her for sure. 

Finally he growled, "Do you remember what I said to you at Nipton?" 

Memories raced through her mind in too panicked a fashion to summon details. _The town had been a whore._ She recalled that bit. With no loyalty — that sin was a Big Bad for Vulpes, she remembered that, too. 

Did he consider keeping one's word akin to the virtue of loyalty? So she could count on him when he pledged nothing would happen to Cass?

What was she thinking??

“No--" she began.

"I'll be fine," Cass interrupted. "You run along and get that chip so we can high-tail it out of here. I'll sit tight... and pretty.” She winked at the Praetorian.

Courier fought the relief welling within her. Cass had given her an out, a way to save face, but it still felt wrong to back down about this. “Really? You're certain?"

"Yes. Get along now."

The Praetorian opened the flap to Caesar's tent. If she held back now it might look like cowardice. There was nothing to do but enter.


	3. Chapter 3

In angry spurts of shouting, Caesar catalogued Courier's crimes against his Legion. She had stopped listening early on. 

This interview was going to need a cool demeanor and some nonchalant answers, and she was rummaging her mind to provide possibilities for the one while concentrating on looking bored to accomplish the other.

"So I ask you," Caesar finished, “ _Why_ did you come here?"

_Here we go._ Courier took a deep breath. "Well, you know, after one causes that much destruction, seems about time to move up the chain of command. Especially when there's a guarantee of safe passage."

Caesar scowled. "And you believed that?"

_Dirty bastard deathclaw._ She shrugged. "Didn't matter to me one way or the other." 

She raised an eyebrow and stared at him, willing him to wonder why it didn't matter to her, to wonder what she might have up her sleeve… her sleeveless dress, rather… that would make her unafraid to march unarmed into the heart of his power.

There was a long, long pause. 

Civilizations rose and fell in that pause. 

Then Caesar laughed.

"I'm just fucking with you." He shook a finger at her. "You bluff well, I'll give you that. Doesn't she, Vulpes?"

"Indeed." Vulpes didn't sound that awed by her skills. No shock there.

"Mmm." Caesar's eyes raked up and down her body. "You'd give my Legion many fine warriors."

Oh, _ye gods,_ was he talking about _breeding_ her? 

She smiled, going for sweet. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I'm conserving my genes for a match worthy of them."

To her surprise, Caesar nodded. "You decide to stop merely playing at war and I just may have men fighting in the arena to service you. Are you ready to get started?"


	4. Chapter 4

Benny sighed. "I'm just trying to leave you my legacy, baby."

"Shut up! You've attempted to kill me _twice_! Twice!!” Courier hissed at him.

"That first time I thought I'd succeeded."

"Yes! More of that. Talk like that and I can put you down like the nightstalker-y radscorpion you are." 

Courier ground her teeth. The interview with Caesar had gone well, she'd regained the Platinum Chip, and she'd managed to upgrade Mr. House's secret army of Securitrons while letting Caesar think they were destroyed. All she had to do was deal with Benny and she could get out of here. Why did the damnable man have to be so charming?

"You talk to Yes Man after you blow this popsicle stand, baby. That's the ring-a-ding move."

"Again. Stop _helping_ me. I’m here to kill you, dammit.”  She wasn't about to let him escape. Even disregarding the whole vengeance thing, Benny would always be a threat. 

He might be slick enough to sweet-talk a deathclaw, but he was also utterly ruthless. If she risked her life to help him — the man who'd tried to kill her ( _TWICE_ ) — he'd just turn around and knife her in the neck, take the chip back, and resume his New Vegas takeover. 

She knew that.

But to kill a helpless person....

She whirled and paced up and down in front of him with short, quick strides. Caesar and his goons were watching. She had to make a decision. Quickly. 

A decision she could live with. 

Hopefully, one that wouldn't kill her.


	5. Chapter 5

Courier stumbled after Siri, blood pouring down from the slash in her scalp and obscuring the vision of her left eye, but determined not to show weakness until she was away from Legion witnesses. 

She just hoped wherever Siri was taking her was on this next row of tents or she might have to rethink that strategy.

Her duel with Benny had gone well, from a Legion standpoint. Lots of hacking. And blood.

Benny had made it easy, slashing at her with such murderous abandon her only choice had been to kill him in self-defense. Jane was right. The Chairmen weren't that far from Tribals after all.

Suddenly Siri ducked inside a tent and, with a sigh of relief, Courier followed. The tent contained two hanging candle-lamps, one bedroll, one rickety table upon which the tools of Siri's trade were laid out, and one chair. Siri motioned to the chair and Courier gratefully sat.

"Stanch that with this." Siri thrust a cloth into her hands and Courier pressed it to her scalp.

Letting her eyes slide closed, she listened to the comforting clink and grind of Siri's mortar and pestle. The slight scent of broc flowers wafted on the air.

"I hate these primitive recipes," Siri muttered. "How do you make healing powder again?" 

"You're the Legion's doctor and you don't have their main form of medicine memorized?"

"Girl, those bastards interrupted my medical degree, burned my town, and took me as a slave. You think I care whether what I give them heals them? Long as it's not obvious, their deaths can be blamed on their own weakness, not me."

"You're awesome. You know that, right?" Eyes still shut, Courier confirmed the proper broc flower to xander root ratio, per what Sunny Smiles had taught her, and the soft mashing sound continued.

Then the stiff fabric of the tent flap rustled. Instantly on edge, Courier’s eyes snapped open to see Vulpes Inculta entering. 

_Fuck crap no._ She was not ready for this now. 

He sauntered over to Siri. "I will attend to that."

Siri bowed her head in acknowledgment. Courier barely caught her whispered, "Excuse me," before she was darting out of the tent. 

They were alone.

A chill spread over Courier as she realized this was the first time she had ever faced Vulpes alone. 

Lots of people at Nipton, though admittedly many of them were dying. Lots of people on the Strip. Lots of people walking through this camp. 

Nobody but the two of them inside this tent.

She watched him approach, all the while trying to keep her expression as unimpressed as his. 

"What, your kink is to see my blood up close? Distance didn't seem to hamper anyone else. This could be considered a weakness, y'know."

Ignoring her, he effortlessly picked up the loaded table and moved it to the side of her chair. Although several vials wobbled, and instruments rattled, nothing fell.

"Hey, you've got a future in entertainment at the Tops, you have. That was nifty!" 

Did she actually just say that? _Nifty?_ Why didn't life have a reset button? She was such a....  And so much for remaining unimpressed. 

Vulpes reached toward her head and she instinctively flinched. He gave her that condescending smile but didn’t taunt her. She hated herself nonetheless. Always frightened. Never the model of unperturbed menace that Boone was. 

Vulpes’ hand skimmed hers. His skin was so cool. How did he do that? The Mojave in daylight was like an oven.

"You can let go."

She realized he had hold of the cloth she was pressing to her scalp, and sheepishly released it and lowered her arm. 

With a sort of professional detachment, he started cleaning her wound. Back achingly straight, she gripped her knees and stiffly waited for him to try to smother her with healing powder or something. 

The attack never came. 

Instead she felt a soothing paste being thickly daubed along her cut. This was insane. He was helping her. 

What did he want? He had to want something. Information? He collected information as a spy. But he wasn't interrogating her. 

Perhaps his plan was to drive her crazy with quiet. That was it. 

It was working, too. 

Her body hurt, her nerves shrieked, and she just couldn't handle the uncertainty. Maybe if she took control of the conversation first.

Pulse pounding in her ears, she broke the silence. "Where's Cass?"

"She's safe."

"Benny would have said, 'safe as kittens'." The thought made her instantly sick. It was so much easier killing bad guys she hadn't gotten to know.

"Why did you not have the unfortunate Benny crucified by Caesar's Praetorians?"

"Because it was my battle, not theirs."

"Then you could simply have executed him while his hands were bound. He would have done so to you."

A bitter bark of laughter escaped her. "He already did. See those bullet scars?" She felt his deft fingers examine the old wounds with a practiced efficiency. "I was kneeling in front of him with my hands tied when he shot me in the head."

"They say you rose from your grave to exact vengeance. I did not realize the legend was so… literal.” 

She wasn't listening. "I should have paid him back in kind. You're right. But I couldn't do it. It's wrong to attack an unarmed man. Isn't that stupid? It's _wrong_.” Her eyes started to water and she swiped at them angrily. “I could have executed him and got away from here unscathed, but no, that would have been _wrong._ So here I am, in pain, with a bleeding head wound, and no stimpaks. I'll probably die of infection. But at least I won't be _wrong_.” She groaned. "I despise myself."

Vulpes long fingers combed gently through her hair, once. Twice. "I did not say executing him was what you should have done. I said you _could_ have done so. The fact that you chose battle instead means you are now as covered in honor as you are in blood. Even if the blood is mostly your own."

A small, mirthless chuckle bubbled out of her. "That's really… disgusting. Thanks. Now can you please, please, _please_ sneak me a stimpak? Please?"

He finished dressing the slash in her scalp. "Head wounds always look far worse than they are. This will heal without need of your profligate chems.”

“Phooey.”

“I—what?”

“Pass me some healing powder to chew, then. I ache all over. I think I've strained absolutely everything. And your Caesar is probably going to take advantage of my health being less than optimal to shank me some way.”

“You yet bear the mark of Caesar. You are safe.”

“Says you.” 

“I do.” He appraised her with that disinterested stare for what felt like ages before saying, “Would a hot bath restore your spirits?”

“Heh. Would it ever.” Then she balanced the luxury of immersing her aching muscles in hot water with having to lug heavy kegs up Fortification Hill, wait for that water to heat over a fire, and then carry pitcher after pitcher from the cauldron to a tub inside a tent. 

Indoor plumbing alone was reason enough to save New Vegas.

“Don’t think I could face the work just now though. Thanks anyway.”

The corners of his lips crooked up ever so slightly, like he was amused, but too polite - or inhuman - to show it. "You understand we have slaves to prepare a bath for you."

Her spirits perked up hopefully at the prospect of an effort-free bath, to be swiftly drowned in a rush of guilt. How more hypocritical could she be, to hate the Legion for their slaving and then benefit from slave labor herself? 

“I couldn’t possibly.”

"If they don't labor for you, they will simply labor for someone else. Your turning down their aid does not mean they are granted a rest. Slaves’ work never ceases. If it salves your conscience any, slaves assigned to you will benefit from a respite in beatings. Assuming you don't intend to beat them."

"Of course I wouldn't beat them," she snapped before noting the glimmer in his eyes. He was teasing her. Of all the insane… the cold beast was teasing her. "Okay. Fine. One hot bath, please."

He lifted the tent flap and she heard him issuing orders. Then he ducked back inside.

“Wait... I thought… you're staying?"

"Yes." His tone was cool, calm, and clearly enjoying her discomfort.

"But didn't you just tell them you wanted to bathe, too?"

"It will save them labor to prepare two tubs simultaneously. You do wish to save the slaves labor, correct?"

"Well, yes, obviously." _Fuck._ He was completely manipulating her with her stupid conscience. “But… but you're not going to be bathing _here,_ in this same tent, with me… are you?"

Again that cruel ghost of a smile. "My orders are never to allow you out of my sight.”

"That would be a 'yes', then? You're staying to watch me bathe? Peachy." Courier glared at Vulpes.

"The Guardian of the Wastes is shy?" He was laughing at her. His face maintained that unbroken calm, but she could tell from the flash in his eyes.

She folded her arms across her chest and continued to glare at him. There was no point in answering. She was shy. Not just of her body. Of everything. 

Wrapping herself in anonymity, just the nothing Courier Six from nowhere whom nobody noticed nor cared about, had helped her survive from one day to the next, ever since the Fiends took Vault 3. No one asked about her history, where she came from. No one triggered her memories. 

Now Mr. New Vegas talked about her on the radio constantly and she couldn't go anywhere without someone recognizing her as the girl who entered the Lucky 38. 

Curse Benny for taking her precious anonymity away from her, too.

When the water was ready, Vulpes directed the slaves to fill her metal tub first. She waited until they were practically done before bowing to the inevitability of her humiliation. 

She was going to have to undress and he was going to stand there and watch.


	6. Chapter 6

She turned her back to him and started to strip, her fingers shaking so badly that the buttons and buckles refused to release. She could feel his eyes on her like a weight. 

Finally shed of all her clothing, she hunched her shoulders, trying to fold in on herself. He was probably back there cataloging her every imperfection. She had to get into the tub quickly, somehow, and take advantage of the quantum of privacy offered by the water.

Eyes down to avoid looking anywhere near his area of the tent, she stepped to the tub. Its high sides meant she had to hold on to the rim as she threw her leg over. Shame burned in her cheeks. There was _so_ no way to climb into this tub in a ladylike manner. 

Though she felt clumsier than a mad brahmin, it took only a few movements of her awkward limbs before she was plunging into beautiful hot water. 

Unable to stop herself, she glanced to Vulpes, to check his expression, to see if it was one of ridicule or disgust. 

His face was impassive as always. She should have known. For once, she was grateful to his stoic nature. It was a relief not to see any sort of judgment in his eyes.

Relaxing proved a challenge. Nevertheless she leaned back against the tub, closed her eyes, and tried to forget her audience. The heat slowly began to sink into her skin. Then she heard him moving and her eyes snapped open, on alert once more.

She watched as he wandered over to her pile of belongings. They had allowed her to fight with the machete she'd carried among her armaments, and they hadn't taken it back afterwards, when they took the borrowed gladiator armor from her. 

Vulpes picked up the weapon and inspected it, lightly running his finger along the machete’s stained blade.

"This is Dead Sea's Liberator, is it not?" He raised his eyes to hers. His gaze drilled into her and she knew without a doubt he already knew the answer to his question.

Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. Legion members despised cowardice, so her best bet at survival was honesty. "Yes."

"He would only let this leave his body if rigor mortis had set in."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Never apologize for the defeat of an enemy."

"No, I'm not sorry I killed him — he was trying to kill me. I meant sorry for your loss. If he was a friend of yours. I know what that's like.” She swallowed. “Although I'd want to kill the bastard who killed my friend so… so I… I think I'll just shut up now."

He strode to the side of her tub, a confident swagger to his movements. He had not let go of the machete. 

She tried to regulate her breathing, tried not to reveal her growing trepidation. She still carried Caesar's mark. He wouldn't hurt her. Internally, she repeated that mantra, and hoped he remembered it, too.

Vulpes stood behind her, out of her vision. She started to turn her head to see him, and abruptly stopped as the flat of the machete’s blade pressed against her cheek. 

Gentle pressure that indicated he wanted her facing forward. She obeyed.

The machete didn't leave her cheek.

"Dead Sea was not a friend."

"I see." She swallowed again, pretty certain she could taste her own fear. "But you're going to kill me anyway, on point of principle?" She hoped he hadn't noticed the quaver in her voice.

He dragged the flat of the blade down, ultra-slowly, and she felt each millimeter of skin it skated over. Goosebumps prickled up her scalp as the machete halted at the side of her throat, then proceeded to delicately stroke her skin in a small circular pattern, demonstrating the precise control he had over the unwieldy weapon.

How had she allowed him to get a knife to her throat? Fucking _allowed_ him. 

Benny might be dead, but she was still going to get it in the neck, and it would be her own fault.

She held herself absolutely still, trying to reign in the panic careening from her stomach to her chest. Maybe if she never moved again, he'd forget about her. A last ditch effort at clinging to life for a prey animal caught in a predator's claws.

The blade never moved as he crouched behind her. She felt the fingertips of his free hand touch the other side of her throat, finding her pulse.

His fingertips pressed into her neck. She waited, knowing her racing heart was betraying her. She could hear its rapid thump in her own ears.

"You fear me." His fingers left her pulse. "That is good." She felt his knuckles gently rub against her cheek and wondered hysterically if the gesture was supposed to be calming. "My lord thinks you show great promise. He has assigned us a mission. We will accomplish more if we understand each other."

"You do realize I don't understand so well when my head's not attached to my body,” she snapped.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to _kill_ you….” His voice was smooth and yet not at all comforting.

She glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye, heard a soft splash of water, and then felt his hand brush her side to slip beneath her breast, his palm cupping the underside, supporting its weight. 

She started to move, to protest, she wasn't sure what, but the flat of the machete blade pressed a little more firmly against her throat and she stilled.

His thumb brushed up and over her tight, hardening nipple and she jolted at the contact, inside and out, creating waves in the bathwater.

He made a shushing noise. And did it again. 

She didn't know what he wanted from her. Squeals of outrage? Pleas to stop? Tears? 

Well, she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her upset.

Her attempt at an indifferent yawn ended ignobly, doubled over, choking on her own spit, when his hand slid down to caress her belly. So much for nonchalance.

She heard a quiet, subtle snort that might possibly have been him laughing at her. Then the machete returned to her neck and she realized he had moved it away while she coughed. So he really didn't intend on harming her. Or at least, not before time.

"Be still." He pressed his cheek against hers. How could his skin always feel so cool and pleasant? He was a horrible person. He should be slimy to the touch.

He shifted, leaning forward, against her. Why? Then the hand resting almost protectively on her belly moved lower and she knew.

His fingers insinuated themselves inside her with the same smoothness as his voice. This was not fair at all.

 _Ignore him._ Her teacher had always said to ignore bullies. Bullies hated to be ignored. 

_Just pretend you're somewhere else._ Pretend… _ooooh_ , pretend that didn't feel _really_ good.

He had long, dexterous fingers and he knew what he was doing. 

She gnawed on her lower lip. Boone could only think of Carla, Arcade could only think of Y chromosomes, and the crucifier of Nipton had mad sex skills. 

Life, the Mojave, _everything_ was totally fucked up. She should have joined the ghouls on their rocket.

"Wh-at… d'ya think… you're doing?" She couldn't talk for the way her lungs hitched.

"I am aiding your recovery." His hot breath caressed her ear, giving her goosebumps.

 _Flying pigs incoming._ There had to be a catch. Strings attached. Like an to instrument. He was playing her. Definitely playing her. But soooo well. 

Oblivious to morality, her body was blithely climbing toward orgasm. Pressing her thighs together in resistance only made the prickling ache escalating inside her worse. 

It had been such a long time…. _Not since before…._

She seized his wrist. She had to get out of here. _She was trapped, trapped again and they were coming and the screams…._

Blindly, unthinking, she lunged forward, scrabbling for the metal rim, aiming to rise from the tub and sloshing water everywhere in her panic.

Pain shrieked across her scalp.

He’d grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled, wrenching her head back, hauling her to sit with the flat of his blade sliding around to rest beneath her chin. 

At least the acute hurt had brought her thoughts back into focus. 

“Get. That. Machete. Away from my throat." Her growl would have sounded more impressive if she hadn't been panting so rapidly. 

"I like having your undivided attention." He twisted the weapon so the edge bit ever so slightly into her skin. 

Hyper-aware of the pressure, of the hard metal that barely allowed her to swallow, she tried to think of a retort. She had seen the atrocities the Legion could commit with such machetes, and he knew it. He was toying with her, enjoying her fear and confusion. 

Heart pounding hard enough to shake her body, she muttered, "Saying 'please' works just as well, y'know. No, don't tell me. The Legion never say please to a woman."

He chuckled. "The Legion never say please. To anyone."

 _Right. Of course_. "Hey, I think your bath water's getting icier than you are." 

She had no idea if his tub was even ready yet, but she hadn't heard any pouring recently, and it was as good a reason as any to divert his attention from her.

He ignored her. “So. What was that?”

“What?” she challenged.

“Your agitation. You could have harmed yourself.”

“Only because you bring sharp objects to my bathtub,” she snarled.

“That I will grant you. But, despite your courage, you are neither as hardened nor as… experienced as you would like us to believe. And you have been damaged.”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Perhaps.” The blade disappeared from beneath her chin and he backed away. "In any event, I apologize."

"The Legion apologizes?"

"Never." He sounded amused. "But I do. Rarely. You are not what I expected."


	7. Chapter 7

Vulpes wasn't at all uncomfortable about undressing in front of an audience apparently. Not that he had anything to be ashamed about. His long fingers nimbly untied laces and unbuckled straps, gradually shedding his equipment so that, piece by piece, his body was revealed. Strong shoulders. Nice abs. Nice legs. Nice… everything. 

He stretched, arms above his head. Next his neck and shoulders, rolling first one shoulder, then the other. She watched his muscles ripple. Like something from one of those nature holotapes. A wild… panther or some such. Damn, he was a handsome animal. She started humming a wordless, brassy tune.

"Is that your singing or a death rattle?"

“It's… something I heard at Gomorrah. You know, that song they play when there's stripping? Or maybe you don't know. Anyway, it was a joke. Meant to be a joke. A small, marginally funny…." _Why am I trying to joke with a sociopath_? "Forget it. So what's this mission?" 

Clearly the easiest way to extricate themselves from the Fort was to agree to whatever Caesar wanted, get Cass, and - once they were home safe in the Lucky 38 - forget all this like a bad dream.

Vulpes stepped into his tub, making it look easy. Well, he was taller. Longer legs.

Using an economy of words, and ignoring her for the most part while he lay back and stared at the tent ceiling, the gentle lap and splash of water at his rare movements being the only other sound save his voice, Vulpes outlined Caesar's plan to divert NCR resources. Fiends would raid McCarran. The Omertas storm the Strip. All at the same time the Legion attacked the Dam.

She was going to have to warn Mr. House about all that. 

Caesar was sending them to finalize things with the Omertas. The presence of the Courier should help them come to favorable terms quickly. She had, after all, just assassinated the leader of the Chairmen.

"You disapprove?" The smug smile on his face told her he'd expected that reaction.

 _Great buzzing cazadors_. She was never going to survive this if he could read her so easily. 

She sighed. "All right. Yes. I disapprove. I get wanting to distract the NCR, and I’m not a huge NCR fan, but that plan endangers The Strip's harmless civilians."

"The profligates of New Vegas will be endangered whether the Legion aids the Omertas or not. Do you think the Three Families will kindly look the other way while the chaos of war ensues? It will be a bloodbath unless one faction strikes first. The Omertas' muscle, and history of slaving, make them our first choice."

 _Focus. Think agreeable thoughts. You're agreeing with this man._ "Okay. Send Cass home and I'll do it."

"I suspected you might make that suggestion. Thus I have advised Caesar to entertain your friend here until our mission is complete. Hostages have a way of ensuring cooperation from the recalcitrant."

Some days she really wished Victor hadn't dug her out of the ground.

Dredging up some righteous indignation, she snapped, "Who said I was recalcitrant? I've helped Caesar, haven't I? If this is how you treat your allies--"

He cut her off. "Caesar wants to believe the famed Courier will perform an errand or two and suddenly stand loyal at his side. I have no such delusions. You will never be true to Caesar.” He shifted to face her. “This is what I desire you to understand: You will accompany me because Caesar wishes it. You will stay out of my way and you will not interfere with my negotiations. Obey me and things will be pleasant for you. Otherwise…." He let the word hang in the air.

She laughed, hoping it didn't sound forced. "Yes, I can see how Caesar thinks you need me along, if that's an example of how you 'negotiate'."

He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her for a long moment. When he spoke, she thought she caught the barest hint of exasperation in his tone. "You cannot honestly tell me you intend to support the Legion. You are too…."

"What? Say it. Too conscientious? Too karmically good? Are you admitting your Legion is neither of those things?"

He scowled. "You are…."

She interrupted him, fists clenched. "There's a decapitated body in the arena that dares you to say 'soft' or 'weak'."

"I do not know what you are. But I do not trust you."

"That makes two of us. Where are the towels?"


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't trust people who don't drink," Nero drawled. 

Big Sal slammed a whisky bottle and a shot glass down on the battered coffee-table in front of Vulpes. The collision of heavy glass on wood rang like a warning shot. Courier, perched on the couch at Vulpes' side, wondered if the poor table got a lot of such abuse. 

"Drink, Mr. Fox," Nero continued. "Now."

As a negotiation, this was going little better than the 1618 meeting of the Bohemian Chancellery, the one where half the room pushed the other half out the window. Or that was how Arcade told the story. He probably made up half the stuff he told her, though.

So far the Omertas seemed to think she was just a whore who'd found Benny's jacket and gun. Had she brought Benny's dripping head tucked under her arm, they might have been impressed. 

As it was, Nero, Big Sal and Button Man didn't even agree on whether she was really the girl spotted entering the Lucky 38. So they treated her to the same disdain they showed their prostitutes and tried to hit Vulpes up for more gold.

Head cocked to the side, Vulpes hadn't moved to take the bottle. _Oh, right_. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in the Legion. Great. He'd have to refuse, the entire deal would fall through, and Cass would get crucified. They'd probably all get crucified. 

She glanced around quickly, inventorying the drinks in Nero's private office. Whisky. Scotch. Beer. More whisky. The man was a functioning alcoholic. No vodka though. _Okay then._

"This is more like it." She snatched the whisky bottle by the neck and threw back a gulp without bothering to pour it into the glass. It burned. 

_Kept_ burning. 

What was this, floor cleaner? You could bleach blood stains with this shit. How did Cass drink it - and in such volume? 

Her eyes teared up but she tried to hide that by narrowing them and glaring in Vulpes' direction. "And no, I'm not sharing with you, Fox." She cradled the bottle to her chest. "You hoarded that _vodka_ all to yourself. Because you only drink _vodka_. And anyway, you should never mix your drinks.” She hoped he caught her intention.

"You may finish that bottle for all I care," he sneered at her without missing a beat, then turned to Nero. “Is there vodka to be had?”

She grinned. Definitely quick on the uptake. Of course, he was Caesar's mastermind so she shouldn't be surprised. 

“No. Sorry. We’re waitin’ on a shipment. Should be in tomorrow.” Nero was watching her, so she took another swig from the bottle. 

"Hey. She yours? Or can anyone cut a piece?" Big Sal asked Vulpes.

_Go ahead, talk about me like I'm not here. I am sooo coming back and melting your weapons stash._

Vulpes squeezed her thigh and she jumped. That really hurt. Then she remembered to plaster a smile on her face. 

This all would have been so much easier if Benny had just given her the Chip when she confronted him at the Tops, but nooo she had to chase him to Caesar's Fort to get it. She'd kill him again at this point. _Bastard son of a cazador._

“She’s mine," Vulpes was answering. "And I do not accept used goods. Let it be known she is not to be touched. Ever.”

"Yours, huh? Guess you're human after all," Nero replied, looking more relaxed.

Vulpes patted her thigh. "Let us finish this business, then," he said to Nero. "So I may attend to other… engagements."

Big Sal chuckled and suddenly the negotiations were back on track.

Courier, while quite pleased with herself and her quick save of Vulpes' liver, was less enchanted with the bottle of whisky she now had to make a show of at least partially drinking.


	9. Chapter 9

It was dusk by the time they left Gomorrah. There'd been… lots of talk. About… stuff. Good thing she had the Pip-Boy. It could remember the details for her. 

The sidewalk lurched and Vulpes grabbed her arm, steadying her.

"You did not have to drink that for me. As a spy, I get dispensation from Caesar to do what needs be done."

"Oh. Now you tell me." 

But she wasn't angry. She couldn't be angry. Her belly was pleasantly warm and her spirits were higher than they had been in a long time. If only her legs would move in the direction she wanted. 

They only made it another few feet before the world spun and she caught hold of his shirt. Regular shirt. He was dressed like a gambler. Incog… In cogs. Cogs and whistles and other pre-war… a suit. That was it.

"I like this on you." She patted his chest.

He caught her arms. He seemed concerned that she was going to fall over. Was she? She inclined her head until it bumped his chest. This was cozy.

"Your shirt is soft."

"Yes."

“And… dapper. You're a dapper gambler." She started giggling. "Say that three times fast. Dapper gambler. Dapper gambler…." 

Her giggles were getting out of hand now. It wasn't that funny. Something was wrong. But she couldn't make herself stop. It was nice to laugh. Not enough things in the Wasteland to laugh about.

"I have read that hysterical women must be either slapped… or kissed. Since you fell to this state bravely preserving my virtue…." She heard him chuckle softly. "I am willing to perform the less painful method."

"Less painful's good. Sssurrr..surrrrprising, for you, though. Thought you liked pain…. Liked giving me pain, at least.” 

He grunted, still amused. "It means I appreciate your sacrifice."

“Sacri… sacrifice?" Words were perfectly clear inside her head, they just wouldn't leave her mouth the same way.

"You do not drink, do you?"

"Cassss…Cass hass…ssss…." She rolled the letter around on her lips, almost making it a whistle. "Isn't that a cool sound? Cassss hassss…. "

He poked her chest with an index finger, like she'd gotten stuck.

"…been teaching me," she finished, and bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop a chortle from escaping. "Don' have her gift yet. Right side's best."

"What?"

"Left's bruised. Hit here." She pointed to her right cheek.

"You are saying… you believe being slapped would be less painful than being kissed by me?"

"Yup. What? I'm wrong?" She sighed. "This is all wrong. All so, so wrong." The giggles took over again.

"What sort of profligate are you?" 

"Hmmm?"

"I suspect the Omertas added something to that whisky. Nevertheless, you clearly cannot hold your liquor and the only chems you seem to utilize are for wounds. Nor do you appear to indulge in promiscuous carnality."

"Promisssscuoussss…." At that moment the electric lights of the Lucky 38 flickered to multicolored, vibrant life. She pointed up at them. "Oooo, pretty! Aren't the lights pretty? We had electricity. But we didn't have colors like that. No colored lights." 

She looked over at him, watching the reds and yellows play upon his skin. Legion colors. She had to remember he was Legion. _Don't talk so much._

"Have you been listening to me?” he asked.

Turning away, she wobbled to the other side of the street and balanced on the edge of the cracked cement curb. Teetering back and forth made her feel even less in control, which was a thrill, but she kept falling off. 

And that was a challenge. Can't back away from a challenge. Nope. 

She heard Vulpes repeat his question and called back, "What?"

"Never mind."

This time when she toppled off the curb, he caught her. She tilted her head back and gazed up at him. He was staring at her lips. She watched the tip of his tongue dart out to briefly moisten his own lips before disappearing behind the closed line of his hard mouth.

If only he'd… "Kiss me," she breathed aloud before she could stop herself. "Please? I haven't been kissed since… oh… can't talk about that." She shook her head. 

"Since?"

"Since a long time," she amended. "A long, long time in a tunnel far, far… well, not so far away from here actually."

"I thought you found the idea of sharing a kiss with me singularly unappealing."

"'S'okay. C'mere." 

Suddenly she was up on her tiptoes, throwing her arms about his neck.


	10. Chapter 10

Vulpes deftly removed her arms from about his neck and, before she could protest, gripped her chin in one hand. Maintaining no other contact with her, he tipped her face up. Her eyelids slipped shut. 

Positioned like this, she was very vulnerable. Concurrent with the predatory flare of heat low in his belly came the icy cataloguing of kill strikes he could accomplish in this stance. And then something... new. 

Pity? It might be pity. He was reminded of Antony's hidden tears when puppies valiantly fought yet failed to prove they'd survive the Mojave and had to be put down. The emotion wasn't at all Legion. But that hadn't stopped Vulpes from sitting with him afterwards, listening to Antony's ramblings deep into the night, because the Houndmaster could not bear the nightmares sleep would bring. 

It was probably pity. He was going to have to quash this before it got out of hand. And then his mouth was on hers.

Her lips were surprisingly soft, but dry, as was the kiss he pressed briefly against her mouth.

Apparently she hadn’t expected him to actually do it, because her response was late. When he pulled back, her lips tried to follow his. He stepped away to ensure failure of contact. Off balance, she staggered and he had to grab hold of her shoulders to keep her upright. 

Which was an odd instinctual move on his part. Drunk profligates belonged in the gutter. Why hadn't he let her fall?

“That’s it?” Her tone was more wounded than angry.

"You are impaired.”

“But that’s the whole point. You hate me. I hate me. I mean, I hate you. But I’m drunk. So it’s perfect. Right? Oh and the other thing. Medicinal. Medissssssinal.”

“I do not take advantage of allies, if that is what you are. I also prefer my conquests fit for battle.” He noticed he was still holding her shoulders. He really should stop that.

She made a sad “awwww” sound and her head tipped all the way back until she was staring up at the darkening sky. Now he couldn't release her, as she was depending upon him to keep her from toppling backward.

“Pretty,” she said to the heavens, drawling the word out into at least three syllables.

There was no possible way they could march to the Fort tonight. A bed would have to be found on The Strip. Not at the Gomorrah, though. He didn’t trust the rooms at Gomorrah any more than he trusted the men. 

The Omertas were useful to Caesar, but they in no way lived up to Legion ideals. Vulpes rather hoped they’d be slaughtered once their usefulness was at an end. 

The White Glove Society also supported Caesar. They were a minor player, not having the firepower of the Omertas, but they could be relied upon, and the Ultra-Luxe was both clean and classy. The Courier would be safer, as long as the cannibals knew she was with him, and more at home at the Ultra-Luxe. 

Not that he cared how a profligate felt. Although she was more of a borderline dissolute than a.... Why was he having this discussion? 

“This way.” Making sure she was steady upon her feet first, he released her shoulders and took her hand. Purely because it was the simplest way to get her moving in the right direction.

“Y’know, telling time is different on the surface. Here you know it’s night because the sky becomes a vast black blanket filled with sparkles and glitter.” She waved her free arm at the sky. “There you know it’s late because the hallways have segued into sleep-appropriate sepia lighting and now the cafeteria feels really, really bright and shut up I need this coffee because I still have a paper to write but don’t worry I’ve got like six hours before it’s due. Y’know?”

He did not know. But it sounded like something he should learn more about. Information was gold to the frumentarii. “ _There_ …would be where?”

Instead of answering, she started singing the words _Here, There, And Everywhere_. Her voice cracked on the high note.

“Courier. Focus. Where is this place of which you speak?”

"Kiss me first. Someone should kiss me." 

"You can wait…."

"Fuck that. I waited. I waited, and now there's no one to kiss. All dead. All dead.” The repetition became a mournful little song.

“How have you reached adulthood?” he sneered.

“I ask myself that every day. Wait. Where are we going?”

“The Ultra-Luxe. You need sleep.”

“Oo! I’ve never been in there! It’s _very_ expensive. Is Caesar paying?”

“The White Glove Society will not insist on payment.”

“Oh? Oooh. Geez, Caesar’s taken over half The Strip already. He gets things done, does our boy Caesar.”

Mortimer was working the Ultra-Luxe front desk when they arrived, obsequious as always, and their business was concluded swiftly.

“The Bon Vivant Suite is yours.” Mortimer held out a key to Vulpes while eying the Courier. “And this succulent treasure is with you? Healthy, well-bred, enough fat for tasty marbling.”

“You like my fat. I like you!”

“Yes. She is with me. “

“My dear sir, how you manage to pack so much threat of bodily harm into so few words simply eludes me. Not to worry, she is hands-off. I understand. Completely. Enjoy your stay.” 

On their hike to the room, Vulpes heard her muttering to herself, “He said I was tasty. Bet he’d kiss me.”

He decided not to enlighten her regarding Mortimer’s true motivations. With luck, she wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway.

“The water in this suite is radiation-free,” Vulpes said as he unlocked the door. “Drink six glasses of it and you should not have an alcohol-induced headache in the morning.”

“Bleh.”

“And I will gift you another kiss.”

“Done!”

The room inside was large and well appointed, with rugs and upholstered chairs and a lush queen bed.

One. Single. Bed.


	11. Chapter 11

“Normally there are two beds in this suite,” Vulpes stated, slowly approaching the wide, single bed.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, glaring after him. “All I wanted was a kiss. I didn’t want to fuck you. Ssssso… _fuck_ you. That is not happening.”

He gazed down at the offending mattress, and she was about to snidely ask if he thought he could command it to divide in two, when she noticed his usually smooth poker face revealing the merest twist of… unease?

Then he realized her eyes were upon him, and the fleeting emotion vanished. “Courier. You have many Legion, and therefore admirable, qualities. Honesty. Loyalty. Chastity. But swearing….”

She made an exaggerated gasping noise. ”I am ssssso wildly insulted at you calling me chaste…."

"It means….”

"I know what it means! It means no one will sssssleep with me. No one I want.”

“That’s not….”

“Which is true, but shut the fuck up about it already. Wait. Why am I telling you this?”

“ _Swearing_ ,” he continued, voice icy with distaste, clearly impatient to get the conversation back on track so he could reach his point. “Is _not_ an admirable quality. The Legion is above…."

"Motherfucking swear words. I know.” She sighed. Arguing wasn’t going to bring more furniture into existence. “Who gets the couch and who gets the bed?”

“You are changing the subject.”

She waggled a finger at him. “Well ssssspotted. Yay, you. Definitely Caesar’s best at espying the obvious.”

“We are both intelligent adults.” He paused as if to reconsider this statement.  


“Fuck off.”

“When you are not drunk.”

“Thanks.”

“If you are prepared to stay on your side of the bed, I shall remain on mine.”

“Ha! A challenge!”

“What?”

“You think you can scare me into taking the couch.”

“Not particularly.”

“So then you get the whole bed to yourself. Well, it won’t work. Nope. I’m taking this half of the bed.” She flopped down on the side nearest the bathroom. 

Vulpes, meanwhile, rifled through one of the dressers. “Yes, Courier. You have foiled my cunning plan. Congratulations.” 

He pulled a slip of scarlet satin from one of the drawers and tossed it in her general direction without aiming. It nevertheless landed beside her. _Talented bastard._

“Wear that to bed,” he ordered. “If you want to wash anything, it will be dry by morning.” He extricated a matching set of men’s pajamas from the same drawer.

Matching in that they were red. Little else was similar.

“Why do men get full-body coverage and women get this?” With a groan of effort, she sat up and grabbed the skimpy nightwear. 

“I am willing to sleep naked, if such a condition would make you more comfortable.” She caught a bit of a smirk on his face, though his tone had remained serious. 

“Oh shut up and wear the pajamas.” Draping the nightgown over her head like a shawl, she repeated in a sing-song voice, “Paaajaaamaassssss.”

Vulpes disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and returned with a tall drinking glass full of water. 

“Drink,” he instructed, handing it to her. Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he disappeared into the bathroom again. This time she heard the shower running. 

She finished the glass but refrained from entering the steamy bathroom to fetch another. Did he want her to see him naked? Again? What sort of trap was this? 

_Traps._ At the thought, the old panic tightened her chest. 

She began a circuit of tasks that normally reassured her, checking the lock on the door, checking the closets and under the bed, generally making certain the room was safe both from intruders and hidden anti-personnel devices. 

Satisfied, she swiftly changed into the nightgown and hung up her clothes to air, separating out things to wash. Then she lowered the air-conditioning to a chillier temperature.

She felt safest when she could burrow under blankets. 

_Blankets. Blanket fort. Fort. Wall._

When Vulpes re-emerged from the bathroom, dark hair wet, skin slick and shining, the air accompanying him freshly scented by floral soap, he wore nothing but the red pajama bottoms.

And he was confronted by a rearrangement of all the room’s cushions. They now formed a vertical line down the middle of the mattress.

His eyes raked down the bed, then he turned, black eyebrows raised in silent question at her.

“That’s the Dam. No Legion incursions.” She giggled, proud of herself, then sang “Incurssssionssss” under her breath as she entered the bathroom to wash her things in the sink. She drank another glass of water while she was there.

When she came out, he asked, “You did not wish to shower?”

“I don’t need to, I’m not dirty.” The words tumbled out quickly. There was no way she’d give him another chance at her naked body in water. “Actually, I figure I’m a less tempting target unwashed. I am right? Of course I’m right.” She hopped onto her side of the bed, and clambered under the covers.

With an elegant economy of action, he rose, brought her another glass of water and thrust it at her face. 

“Your concern for my future headache is touching,” she mumbled sarcastically, but took the glass and started drinking all the same.

“Courier. If I wanted to enjoy your body, nothing would stop me. Certainly not a little dirt.”

She choked on her water. 

He pretended he didn’t notice and kept speaking. “I shall not touch you. Have you ever known me to break my word?”

She handed back the empty glass, snuggled down, pulling the covers up to her chin, and watched as he returned the glass to the bathroom.

Pale, wicked scars marked his back. How had she not noticed these before? The light in his tent must have been faint compared to electricity. Stripes and crosshatches, like wounds from a whip. Who would dare? Why?

Then he turned out the lights, and the room plunged into darkness so complete she only knew he made it back to the bed when the mattress dipped and shifted on his side. How could he see? And move so silently?

He must have led an interesting life. 

“No.”

“What?” he asked. 

“I haven’t known you to break your word.” She listened to the air-conditioner hum in the night. "Y'know, you were the first person after I left Goodsprings who didn't try to kill me on sight. I was so relieved. You just wanted to speak to me. Ssssaid you wouldn’t hurt me and you didn’t. I could have hugged you.”

“Even with the rows of crucifixions lining Nipton’s streets?” His tone was dark, yet she didn’t believe he was making fun of her. 

She nodded. “Even so.” Time to stop talking and sleep. He didn’t need to know anything more. “Issss why I remembered you. Told Cass about you.” _Stop it!_ “First stranger to be nice to me.” Why was she still talking?

"I thought the coyote head hat might have had something to do with it.”

She snickered, the trace of amiable humor in his voice taking her by surprise. ”Well, it was a _very_ striking hat."

“And did you deliver the lesson I charged you with that day?”

“Yep. You’d asked so politely. And the Mojave Outpost would’ve wanted to know, anyhow. So of course I did.”

She waited for his answer to come, for those particular words, in his hushed, husky voice, to float across the wall of pillows. She was not disappointed. 

“Well done.” 

She shivered, the pleasurable tickles and tingling that always accompanied his pronouncement of that phrase skating up her spine and into her scalp.

“Are you cold?”  


“Oh, no.” She could feel heat rising in her cheeks. “No, it’s just that….” _Don’t tell him! It’s embarrassing. And he’d hold it over you later. Whatever you do, don’t—_ “Your voice gives me pleasant chills. I can’t explain it.”

_I hate drunk me._

The Dam of pillows shifted, pressed against her back. He was leaning toward her.

“I have heard I have that affect on certain profligate women. It makes seduction for information easier.”

“Oh, goodie. I’m common. Well, I don’t have any information. So stay on your side of the Dam.”

“I think you do. But I am not after it. Do you still wish to claim your kiss?”

She had to wrack her brain for a long moment to remember what he was referring to. “I didn’t drink six glasses.”

“No matter.” His warm breath brushed her cheek. “I can make allowances. For a profligate.”


	12. Chapter 12

Suddenly Vulpes was on his back, Courier half on his chest, half on top of her wall of pillows. His hands closed around her throat before he realized he wasn’t under attack and relaxed his hold.

How could a drunk profligate girl move so fast? He'd underestimated her. He was lucky she didn't have a knife in her hands. 

Her hands—one hand gripped the back of his skull, the other was sliding up into his hair. And her mouth…. 

She kissed with the heat of a new recruit, sloppy but enthusiastic. His brief resistance hadn’t even forced a pause. Curious how far she intended to take her advance, he pulled her the rest of the way over the pillows, allowing her to sprawl on top of him while her kisses deepened, invading, taking him prisoner, and stealing his breath. 

That was it. Lack of oxygen. _That_ must be the cause of his excitement. 

Because he _was_ excited. Her solid form on top of him, pinning him to the mattress, contrary to what he thought he knew about himself, made his blood burn. He rocked his hips up against her, deliberately slow in his movement, subdued, resisting the urge to rut like an unthinking citizen of New Vegas and yet seeking relief all the same.

She rolled her hips against him, just as slowly, teasing out a pulse low in his groin, an ache that built quickly with each undulating promise of more contact, more friction. 

His hands slid down her back and up the curve of her ass, fingers digging in to firm flesh, holding her captive so he could thrust—

Suddenly her hand plunged down, past his abdomen, found his erection and squeezed.

He stifled a yip of surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Claiming my kiss. But I’m in charge.”

He could work with that. 

Frumentarii had to adapt to many surprises in the field, but this really shouldn’t have been a surprise. Something dark haunted the Courier’s past. She’d been broken once, and the pieces that were left didn’t fit back together quite right. If that meant she needed her partner to be submissive, he could do that. 

“You may claim anything you wish of me,” he said, using that silky tone of voice he knew she liked. 

If he feigned a tame, unthreatening side, eventually she would trust him enough to tell him her secret past. The more he knew about her, the better able he would be to judge whether she was true to Caesar. 

He was rather surprised when she did not remove her hand. Instead, it insinuated itself inside his pajama bottoms and started to tentatively touch his hot flesh.

"Does that hurt?"

"What... Which...?" _Why were his thoughts so slow?_

"Ssssstupid question I guess. Sorry," she slurred. 

She shifted, trailing kisses along his jawline and down his neck while her hand stroked him, teasing the head of his cock until he groaned with frustrated desire. It wasn't entirely an act. 

In fact, remaining submissive, allowing her to explore, was proving to be far more difficult that he'd expected. For some inexplicable reason, his body responded eagerly to her. A dissolute. And not a very skilled one at that. Still, if his body was reacting, he supposed he should incorporate that into his performance.

He permitted himself a few desperate little thrusts into her hand, as if afraid she would stop, as if pleading for more. In response, her mouth found his throat and she was vicious. He was going to have marks, marks of her possession, but at this point he didn’t care. He wanted to come. 

No, wait, this was for Caesar. 

If she put such importance on being in control, then it was likely she would enjoy seeing him lose his. All this was necessary. A mission. For Caesar.

His hand covered hers, showing her how he needed to be stroked, the roughness that would rip his pleasure out of him.

“Please.” He let several urgent, imploring whines to escape his gritted teeth as she experimented until she found his rhythm.

He gasped and a sharp, hissed, "Yesssss" was drawn from him before he could smother it. How could her touch feel so superior to his own hand?

She sucked a bruise into his throat, then whispered, "Come for me."

"Yessss." Thighs, stomach, balls, every fiber of his being tightened, contracted. His eyelids squeezed shut. He was almost there already. 

He felt her pull back. Was she watching? Her hand never stopped, but he thought he felt her eyes on his face. Watching, waiting to witness his impending degradation, his failure to master the responses of his own body. His face burned with shame or excitement or something he didn't want to identify and didn't need to because this was for Caesar of course it was. 

It wasn't about her, her hand, slick with his pre-cum, copious, like the ache, the painful _want_ inside him. Friction she made was tearing pleasure out of him, compelling him to acknowledge her as the center of his world in this moment. In this moment, he--

_He was hers._

His shoulders pressed into the mattress and his spine arched in orgasm, an agony of pleasure forcing his surrender, his treacherous body nothing but a jumble of stuttering of muscles, which she, lying on top of him, rode as he might ride a wrestling adversary’s death throes, all the way to the end. 

Once his shudders stopped, she wordlessly rolled back to her side and rearranged the pillow wall. 

Loss of control complete, his muscles relaxed, lengthened, and he melted, boneless, into the mattress. He was going to need another shower. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Where is the Courier?” Vulpes asked, impatient and irritable. Frumentarius Picus had said he could find the Courier still traveling with the caravan woman, they having just performed some minor service for the NCR. If his information proved incorrect, Picus would not live to regret it. An inaccurate spy was worthless.

The caravan woman… Cassidy… scowled at him, and for a moment he thought she would refuse to answer. Then she used her thumb to point back over her shoulder, toward the line of dramatic rock outcrops and steep hills behind her. “Up there.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You cannot be more specific?” It was not a small area, and Fire Root Cavern was only one of the many unpleasant holes in the ground it contained.

Cassidy shrugged. “She’ll come back when she wants to.”

 _Interesting._ Such vagueness didn’t affect him—he could track. But it was interesting the Courier would leave her companion without specific knowledge of her whereabouts.

"You do not mind being abandoned?"

"Not abandoned. And I don't mind." Cassidy returned to her campfire. "I'm not alone." She deliberately tapped her foot so the toe of her boot clinked against a glass bottle.

For a profligate, this woman was almost as odd as the Courier. She drank liquor like it was water, but she never touched chems. She possessed the virtue of loyalty in abundance, cleaving to the Courier despite the Courier's--purported--allegiance with the Legion, yet she was dissolute and promiscuous in her relations with others. 

Once Caesar conquered the Wasteland, these incongruous lives would be exterminated. It was almost a pity. Solely in a theoretical sense. From the point of view of a spy who liked challenges. Not... he didn't.... Caesar was completely right to eradicate them. That didn't even need to be said. 

Vulpes started for the nearest rocky outcrop.

"Not staying? I'll give her your regards," Cassidy said, with a wink. "Maybe someday you'll catch us in the mood for a threesome."

Since she seemed to expect a response, he gave her one. "Hold your tongue, whore." 

"There we go," she merrily called after him. "Doesn't count as a proper Legion conversation if there's no misogynistic insult."

His footfalls almost silent in the dirt, Vulpes stalked the hills. The Courier had been uncharacteristically quiet the morning following their night together, and she had remained subdued all the way to the Fort. After her friend had been released unharmed, the women had left almost immediately--on some vaguely defined caravan business. He would have preferred to keep at least one of Courier's companions captive, to ensure her continued loyalty, but Caesar deemed it unnecessary. 

The fact that the women never returned did not seem to bother Caesar either.

To the Legion, Caesar was the Son of Mars, and Caesar's wisdom was infallible. But Vulpes knew his master was human, and ailing. In his right mind, Caesar would never underestimate the Courier like this. She needed a tight leash, or she'd help absolutely everyone in the Wasteland, even against the Legion's interests.

So when Picus informed him of the story told by firelight at Camp McCarran, Vulpes had the perfect excuse... strike that... logical reason to locate the Courier. If the story meant what he thought it did, this might be the card that bound the Courier to Caesar's side permanently.

As it happened, the Courier had not bothered to hide her progress through the hills and tracking her was easily accomplished. In fact, as he got closer, it became screamingly obvious where she was located. Literally.

He found her sitting on an outcrop in the lee of a hill, her arms wrapped tight around her bent knees, a sniper rifle lying at her side.

And she was screaming.

She'd take deep breaths, filling her lungs, and then release long, primal shrieks of emotional agony.

Haunting, nightmarish sounds. 

Yet she did not appear to be injured. 

Forewarning her of his approach, he tossed a few pebbles across the outcrop in front of her, then quickly raised his empty hands. 

The pebbles skittered past the toes of her boots and she was on her feet in seconds, whirling in his direction and aiming her rifle with the unerring instincts of a goddess of death.

Whether she recognized him, or the gesture of harmlessness, he didn't know but she lowered her weapon.

"What are you doing, Courier?” he asked calmly.

"Trying to feel better." She sounded perfectly sane. "Get ready." She glanced toward the valley her outcrop overlooked. "The drawback to this therapy is _things_ always attack afterward."

"You do this often?"

"Yes. Don't judge me." She checked her rifle. "It's usually fire geckos. I really hate geckos. Can't mind their own damn business."

He could see reptilian figures in the distance running toward them. "Do your companions know you do this?"

She dropped an attacking gecko with a headshot 80 yards out. "If they do, we all pretend I don't."

He drew his ripper, ready in case any gecko achieved their position, although it seemed unlikely. She was most proficient with her sniper rifle. He wondered how frequently she deployed her skills in this manner.

“Courier, I have a story to tell you.”

She took down another gecko, but nodded that she was listening.

"There is a Fiend who calls himself Motor-Runner. He lives in an underground fortress, but it wasn't always so. Some time ago this underground ... Vault had a number. Three. And a rather naively trusting population. Forced to open their protective door because of a fault in their water system, they sought help from the Mojave, offering to help others in return, armed with nothing but goodwill. They had constructed no defenses. And they were massacred. All except one."

She made a small noise, but the crack from her rifle as she sniped another gecko promptly drowned it out.

“Yes. That is the rumor. One member of this doomed Vault's population escaped. Tellers of the tale have always assumed this survivor was male." He stepped closer to her. "I believe the survivor was you."

She pulled ammo from her belt and reloaded, dropping a fire gecko just before it got within range of burning them. "Yeah. Okay. That was me," she said grimly. "So?"

"You survived Vault Three. You survived being shot in the head. You have climbed out of your own grave twice.”

“I know. I remind myself of that on days when suicide seems like a really good option. Because I’d probably botch killing me the same as everyone else." She glanced at him and her eyes were empty. "Just more pain, no relief.”

“Perhaps Mars has kept you alive with a purpose in mind.”

“What? Join the Legion? Take drugs? Kill a bear?” She shot another gecko.

“Mr. House seeks to control New Vegas for his own aggrandizement," Vulpes began. "The NCR wants the entire Mojave for theirs."

"Same as Caesar," she interrupted. 

"I've got these." Vulpes strode forward, ripper purring to life, and killed two fire geckos while the Courier took the opportunity to reload. "What do _you_ want?”

He waited while she took down the last of the attacking geckos. Silence descended over the valley. She scuffed her boot along a crack in the outcropping where she stood and didn't look at him.

“Fucking NCR can't do shit about Fiends. Major Dhatri offers random strangers bounties to deal with them. He even asked _me_. ME!" She laughed, a little wildly. "If I was capable of facing them, I'd do it without a bounty." 

She paused. 

The pause lengthened.

"Arizona has been pacified," Vulpes offered. "There are no Fiends in Legion lands."

"That's what Dale Barton said. And I said, it must be nice to be safe. And then Cass said, 'Yeah, all ya have to fear is your own government. Oh, unless you're a woman. Then ya have to fear _every fuckin’ man_ since you're _communal property_ '."

"The caravan woman isn't wrong," Vulpes replied.

The Courier faced him, eyes wide with surprise.

"I will not disrespect you with lies, Courier. All women are slaves. Yes." Gently, he took her rifle from her hands, checked it, and slung it over his shoulder. "All men are slaves too, in that we must all serve Caesar in whatever capacity he assigns us. There is no freedom of choice in the Legion. Unless it is the choice between serving and death."

Vulpes headed toward the nearest gecko and started collecting its hide. The Courier would be able to make herself a full set of armor from this day's work.

'I've helped the NCR. You probably know that," Courier said quietly, following behind him.

"Yes."

"And I've asked if they'd bring Motor-Runner to justice. He's _right there_ by Camp McCarran. It's not like they'd have to displace troops or something. But Colonel Hsu says he’s sent soldiers against Motor-Runner, and killing him's impossible, so 'no more resources will be allocated'. Or some such." She sighed. "I think that sums up the NCR perfectly. Ineffectual at anything that doesn’t directly benefit them. Collecting tariffs and tax money from you to send back to California? Yep, they’ve got that down. Helping you not get killed? Oh, maybe next year.”

"Then pledge yourself to Caesar, and Caesar alone," Vulpes said, handing her the hide to carry and moving on to the next gecko. "The Legion rewards those who serve us well. Normally tokens of our gratitude come in the form of coin and technology forbidden for our use. I can offer you something more personal."

"If this involves showing me your dick, Imma cut it off. Just saying."

With a scoffing snort, he shoved another hide at her and marched to the next body. "Nothing so crude. It would be a simple matter for a small force of elite legionary assassins to slip past NCR lines and put this Motor-Runner you despise to the sword. Would that please you?”

Her sudden intake of breath and the stumble in her step betrayed her surprise.

“But… I thought… Caesar is allied with the Fiends, right? He needs them for the attack on McCarran when you attack the Dam.”

Vulpes turned to look into her eyes. She needed to see he meant what he said. “I can convince my Lord that your support is far more tactically advantageous than allying with degenerate scum whom we would slaughter without second thought in the normal course of events.” 

She scanned his face, eyes narrowed, searching for truth. "You can't enslave my friends. Or kill them. That's non-negotiable. If I join you, they get safe passage wherever they want."

"Of course."

"Of course? Seriously?"

"Loyalty is a Legion virtue. We respect it, even if we don't understand why you would harbor such sentiments toward the unworthy.”

“They are plenty worthy, believe me.”

"Pledge yourself true to Caesar and your friends will go free."

She stared out at the barren hills, but he sensed her eyes were focused inward. "I'm so tired. So very, very tired." She sighed. "Some days I think the Wasteland deserves the Legion." 

"Practically everyone in the Wastes would benefit from Legion rule," Vulpes affirmed, although he knew that wasn't what she meant. "It would curb their base desires and force them to contribute to their society's greater good."

"Doesn't sound like it'd be much fun."

"It's already your life."

"What?" she snapped, turning toward him. 

"You have few base desires and already contribute to what you see as the greater good. You run about saving people who don't deserve to be saved and performing errands for people who really should die if they’re incapable of doing their own chores.”

She laughed. "Yeah, everyone's always asking me to fix things for them. It's exhausting. The more I do, the more there is to do. And the more terrible people I meet." As she regarded him, her gaze somehow softened, and inexplicably he could feel it within his chest, warming him. "And here you are, offering to fix something, something _important_ , for _me_." 

Gratitude. Affection. He had seen these emotions aimed at him before, while playing roles and pretending at personalities not his own. Women had no reason to look at him in this manner when he was himself. Yet this foolish girl was.... "I will execute Motor-Runner personally and gift you his heart."

With great deliberation, she placed her armload of hides on the ground, then held out her hand to him. "You help me kill Motor-Runner and I'm yours."


	14. Chapter 14

Courier stared down the concrete corridor to where the giant cog-shaped door of Vault 3 lurked in shadow. “No. No, no, no. I can’t,” she murmured. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her brow. 

Vulpes ordered the Praetorian leading the unit of assassins accompanying them to take point. His men followed. So did the Courier.

As she stood before the door, Courier made a small, whimpering sound and pivoted back. Then, just as swiftly, she whirled around and hit the ‘open’ button on the adjacent control panel. 

The female fiend on the other side of the rumbling, rolling door put up a good fight, but she hadn’t a chance. They left her dead on the floor and progressed deeper into the Vault.

“Good?” Vulpes whispered to the Courier, noting her shaking hands. 

“Good,” Courier responded, rolling her shoulders before adjusting her grip on her shotgun.

The assassin unit worked methodically, clearing every room, killing each Fiend they encountered with ruthless efficiency. 

Surprisingly, not everyone they encountered was a Fiend. The Courier found and released three captives from a room of cages. 

Not long after that came warning of someone even more unexpected. 

“Ranger!” shouted the veteran decanus, raising his machete as he stepped into the newly opened room. 

A crumpled NCR ranger scout lay propped against the far wall, one leg bound with bloody bandages, feebly waving a combat knife in defense.

“No, wait!” Courier dashed forward, ducking under the decanus and sliding the last few feet on her knees, to put her body between the decanus and the ranger.

Vulpes shouted in Latin for the decanus to stand down. He immediate sheathed his weapon and stood back. 

Courier was never so thankful for their unquestioning obedience. 

“What’s your name, ranger?” she panted, out of breath from her sprint, as she swiveled on her knees to face him.

“Bryce Anders.” He still clutched his knife, pointing it at her chest, but he was clearly thrown off balance by the appearance of legionaries caring what a female thought.

“Hello, Bryce Anders.” She gave him what she hoped was a comforting, friendly sort of smile. _This was awkward._ “What are you doing here?”

“Legion scum won’t get fuck all from me,” he snarled, swiftly recovering himself and slashing his blade in the direction of the Courier’s breast. “I have a knife, bitch.” 

“You so much as scratch her and I’ll feed you your own entrails.” Vulpes sounded almost bored, as if this were not only a Thing He Did, but did _often_. 

The scout looked up at Vulpes, eyes beginning to round in fear, then scanned the faces of the assassin unit behind him. He put down his knife. “I’m… uh… I was sent here to kill Motor-Runner.”

“You,” Courier stated. “And a knife. Against Motor-Runner.” She sighed, closed her eyes, and shuffled over to thump her forehead against the wall. “See, this is the NCR all over. It’s not even a half-assed plan. It’s a no-assed plan. Not an ass in sight.” 

In Latin, Vulpes ordered the assassin unit to continue clearing the Vault of Fiends. The Courier was undoubtably going to set this ranger free, as she had the captives, and the fewer witnesses to her folly the better. 

“You can go back to McCarran,” she was saying to the scout. “We’ve got this.” 

“But this is my mission!” Bryce protested. “I can do it, I’m healing. You’ll just make a mess of things.”

“What? I— What?!” Courier stared at him.

Vulpes affected a yawn. “Can’t we just kill him and move on?”

“No," she replied firmly. "This is my massacre and it’s just Fiends. You. Bryce. I don’t care where you fuck off to, but Motor-Runner is ours.” She rocked back on her heels and stood. “Tell Colonel Hsu the Courier took care of him.”

Bryce scoffed. “He won’t just believe—“

“He won’t have to," she interrupted. "Motor-Runner’s head’ll be on a post outside the Vault when I’m done. In fact, so will Cook-Cook’s, Driver Nephi’s, Violet’s, and Duke’s. We’re going after them when we’re done here. I think that’ll qualify as proof.”

“Look upon her whirlwind of death, and despair,” Vulpes intoned, a mirthless grin twisting his lips. "Tell your NCR, the Courier will reap the Mojave, and all who resist will fall to her blade."

Courier headed for the door, tossing a “ _Vale_ ” over her shoulder at the ranger, who was staring at them as if they were crazy people. They probably were, at that.

Her heart hadn’t stopped buzzing like a cazador since she entered the Vault, but now—seeing blood smears along the floors, walls debased with graffiti mocking the dead, and her past as completely vanished as the shattered terminal screens—she could barely think. Her brain disconnected. None of this was real.

“The throne room is located within the Maintenance wing,” one of the assassins reported. 

She nodded, accepting the information but not asking where he got it. 

In her mind, Motor-Runner had taken on the proportions of a deathclaw. It might be a relief to see him again, remind herself what he really looked like.

“You need not bother yourself with any more of this degenerate filth,” Vulpes announced. “It would be my honor to kill him for you.”

He was giving her a way out. An excuse. She could order him to do it, and stay safely away.

Did she look worse than she felt?

“Thanks. But I have to try. Motor-Runner….” She felt nauseous saying the name aloud. “Owns my nightmares. He won’t own my waking hours. Not anymore. I need to know he’s dead, and that I killed him.” She looked to Vulpes and tried to smile. “Just, please promise me—if he kills me? You kill him back. With a vengeance.”

“ _Ave_. I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I hate killing dogs in these games so Motor-Runner's dogs won't be present. Just FYI.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention here that the title of this story is from Chris Cornell's **You Know My Name**.
> 
> Oh, also: Apparently that skirt with the leather strips the Legion men wear is called a Pteruges. I could have used that knowledge years ago. Think I’ve been calling it a skirt or a kilt. Anyhow. There ya go.

Courier wrenched the chainsaw out of Motor-Runner’s dying hands. 

It was too heavy for her and she dropped it, resorting to kicking it as hard as she could. With a screech of metal against metal, it skidded a few inches away from them. 

Vulpes stepped forward and tossed her his ripper. Catching it and revving it up in one smooth arc, she plunged his ripper into the Fiend’s body. Blood splattered. She struck again, snarling along with the spinning chain. And again. She started screaming as she carved at the corpse.

Motor-Runner was quite definitely dead when she finally sat down on the floor and cradled the dormant ripper in her lap. 

“Nothing….” she murmured. “Nothing." She gazed down at the ripper. "Just next in line.”

Her giggles began quietly, but they quickly raised in pitch and wildness. Tears streamed from her eyes as she laughed.

Vulpes strode to her side and hefted her into his arms. She chortled insanely all the way through the living quarters until he found a room with a clean bed. Ordering the assassin unit to stand guard outside, he dumped her onto its mattress and then locked the metal door.

The bed creaked as she rolled herself into a sitting position. “What’s…. What’s this…?” She could barely get the words out between breathless cackles.

“Medicinal.” He sat beside her, seized her jaw, and kissed her.

At the shock of his hot mouth on hers, she froze. The kiss was rough, forceful, and he leaned into her, using his greater strength and her surprise to take her down to the mattress, flat on her back.

With one violent wrench, he pulled open her shirt, buttons popping and flying to ping against the metal walls and floor.

She tried to roll away, protesting the hassle of sewing on new buttons, but he simply used the access to her back to unhook her bra before flipping her over to her original position. 

“Posuit manere!” he hissed against her ear. “Stay put.” One of his hands closed possessively over her left breast, palm against her nipple. “You’re mine, remember?” 

She shivered beneath him. “Yes.”

He dipped his head and his mouth captured on her other nipple, sucking rather than pulling, until the nub had hardened enough to take the nibble of teeth.

That drew a soft moan from her, a sound that shot straight to his cock. A sound he needed to hear more of. Releasing her breast, his hand snaked down to wrest open her trousers and touch her clit. 

She quivered as two long fingers trapped her clit, gently squeezing, before beginning to rub in slow teasing circles. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” she gasped. 

“Wait?”

“What? No. I don’t…I don’t know what I’m saying. Go on. Do the thing.”

His pace incrementally quickened, along with the pressure of this touch upon her firming flesh. 

Her gasps morphed into increasingly sibilant and urgent repetitions of the word _yessss_.

Suddenly Vulpes moved with the speed of a leaping night stalker, tore off her trousers, and then his face was mashed against her flesh. His talented mouth, lips, tongue were doing everything right, kissing her inner thighs, her outer lips, inner lips, licking and sucking, with nibbles and swirling tongue. He was worshiping her flesh, before taking her clit and sucking on it with his whole mouth.

She would have shrieked with pleasure had her lungs contained any air. She kept forgetting to breathe. 

Her fingers clenched at the mattress, desperate for something to grab, before her right hand dove to his hair, gripping him tight, pressing him against her. Muscles she didn’t know she had were twitching and fluttering. 

He was taking her apart.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she pleaded. 

He continued, keeping a steady rhythm, steady pressure, hoping his constancy would reassure her of his intent to see her through, to take care of her. 

His world had narrowed to her plump, sensitive flesh, her savory scent, and the way her inner thighs were slick with evidence of her excitement. 

She was chanting his name like she had forgotten its meaning, like it was a holy word of praise and affirmation, the syllables an invocation of pleasure. 

With a long, feral groan, she suddenly convulsed, curling toward him, her body beyond her control. 

A surge of wetness bathed his face. And again. She was coming. 

His cock felt so hard it hurt. Still lapping at her folds, he reached down and scrabbled with his pteruges. Desperation made his fingers clumsy, his hand seem irritatingly slow. 

Finally, cock freed, he pressed his cheek against her inner thigh and, panting hard and fast through gritted teeth, jacked himself savagely. 

Those groans were his.

Beautiful pain and agonizing pleasure detonated the base of his spine and curled his toes as orgasm tore through him. 

When he came back to himself, his head was still pillowed upon her. He chuckled, shifted lethargically and kissed the inside of her thigh. 

She sighed happily at the touch of his lips. A completely satiated, almost floating feeling had filled her and all her body wanted now was sleep. 

Unexpectedly, she felt his hands grasping her, gently, pulling her, shifting her, and then she found herself snuggled up against his chest. 

For a moment her fuzzy mind thought there must be some mistake. 

There was no way the man responsible for the Nipton Massacre cuddled. 

He was going to push her from him any moment, a rejection that would sting no matter how much she knew it was coming. 

She tried to move away of her own accord, to preempt his rebuff, but his arms remained wrapped around her. 

“Stay. Please,” he whispered. 

So she remained, warm and safe in his embrace.


End file.
